When a clean house is too clean

Adult children may not have dozens of little toys on the floor, but they have lives in the world, which means they are "out" more than they are "in." You have to be "in" to run a vacuum or wash a dish.

Sometime around Christmas, we adopted a short-term cleaning routine – vacuum when the dog leaves a fur imprint behind, dust when the dust is visible, fold laundry when the "clean pile" is waist-high, shove everything in the bedrooms when guests arrive.

This summer, I made myself a list of appliances, cupboards and closets that needed a good scrubbing.

I started with the stove because it has a self-clean cycle, and I wanted a quick win. Besides, I had made a double batch of lasagna the night before, which didn’t help the state of the oven but would provide another dinner. I started the clean cycle and returned to work.

I forgot about the oven, and it was late when I remembered.

No worries. We had lasagna. I could finish the job tomorrow.

The next morning I rolled up my sleeves. I moved the stove away from the wall. Ugh. Dog fur, spoons, pens, paper clips, those little rubber things that keep the Dutch oven lid from dinging the Dutch bottom. I started sweeping and mopping.

I washed down the sides of the oven where it met the counters, scrubbing out splattered spaghetti sauce from who-knows-when that had dripped between the cracks. I took apart the bottom drawer and washed out the crumbs and mysterious melted goo. I took apart the burners and scrubbed out the grates.

When finished, my oven gleamed.

There was one problem. It was so clean I didn’t want to use it. Given that I already used my leftover card and defrosted a chicken, I had no choice.

Carefully, I wrapped the baking pans in tinfoil and gingerly slid the chicken into my immaculate oven. Carefully, I made the noodles, wiping up every splatter, and resting the mixing spoon on a plate.

Things were going well until I opened the microwave to steam the asparagus.

My Baby Adults had used the microwave the night before to warm up lasagna. Unlike full-grown adults, they don’t believe in recommended settings. They slap in the food, punch in something like 55:55 minutes, and let their entrée’s pops of agony let them know dinner is ready.

Long story short, I dropped the asparagus and picked up the sponge.

I scoured the microwave until it, too, gleamed. Reverently, I placed in the vegetables, actually watching the bag circle in its pristine surroundings, waiting for the ding.

Dinner was ready, but my children weren’t home. So my husband and I sat down to a quiet feast.

Just as I was finishing the dishes, the kids arrived, one after another. They piled their plates with food and moseyed over to the microwave.

No!

I snatched the first plate, chiding them to be careful. For the next 15 minutes, I monitored their nuking, which was ridiculous.

Later that night I looked at my list, trying to find the balance between "don’t you dare" and "don’t care."